


As Dawn Breaks

by AdelaideArcher



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 02:24:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelaideArcher/pseuds/AdelaideArcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus Snape is put on trial by the International Confederation of Wizards. Not every story has a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Dawn Breaks

This is based on the true story of Grace Gifford. Grace married Joseph Plunkett, who was one of the Rebels executed after the 1916 uprising in Ireland. Their wedding was held at midnight in Kilmainham Gaol, Dublin, and Joseph was put to death at dawn the following morning. I heard Grace's story when we toured Kilmainham last year, and it has stayed with me. I hope I've done their story justice. 

Huge thanks as always to my amazing beta, Hikorichan, who makes anything I write so much better and has endless patience with my quotation marks issues. The struggle is real. Thanks to Melody Lepetit as well, who had some great suggestions and was a fab cheerleader.

 

As Dawn Breaks

 

“Severus Snape, the International Confederation of Wizards finds you guilty of the murder of Albus Dumbledore and sentences you to death by wand squad at dawn on the morning of third June, 1998”.

Hermione went cold at the words of the Supreme Mugwump. Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new Minister, had warned her that the ICW was almost certainly going to convict Snape, but she had not believed it. After all, his memories, the evidence of Dumbledore’s portrait, and Harry Potter’s personal testimony would surely clear his name. However, the ICW had felt differently. Snape’s memories, they claimed, had been doctored. Dumbledore’s portrait’s evidence was inadmissible in court on the grounds that the man was dead. Harry Potter was an unreliable witness, his judgement clouded by his grief and a sense of responsibility for the outcome of the war. The man she loved was sentenced to death.

Hermione looked at Severus, their eyes meeting in shared anguish. His lips tilted slightly upwards in an attempt at a smile before they quivered and he pressed them together ruthlessly. This was it; there was no recourse for appeal in the court of the International Confederation of Wizards. 

Neither had the court been moved by the story of Hermione and Severus’s relationship. They heard, unmoved, of Hermione’s discovery, in December, of a bloodied and broken Professor Snape lying in a dungeon corridor, convulsing from Bellatrix Lestrange’s enthusiastic use of the Cruciatus Curse. She had staunched his wounds and levitated him to the hospital wing, whereupon she had assisted Madam Pomfrey in stabilising his condition. After that, she had been unable to think of him the same way. Desperate to help the man, she had gone to Professor Dumbledore. The Headmaster twinkled in his inimitable way and offered her an apprenticeship with Professor Snape to begin in the new term. Professor Snape, predictably, was livid. Professor Dumbledore was insistent.

The first few weeks of her apprenticeship were almost unbearable. Professor Snape made it abundantly clear that he did not want an apprentice, most especially not an annoying Gryffindor one. Hermione left the Potions classroom in tears on more than one occasion. But there had been a change in their dealings after the second time she found him tortured and in agony. Madam Pomfrey was away. Professor Dumbledore was unhelpful. “Miss Granger, you have assisted Madam Pomfrey in the past. You must help Severus by yourself now”. 

And so, terrified, she did. This time it took days to stabilise him. Hermione caught snatches of sleep here and there, usually woken by the screams of a man in physical and mental agony. In desperation, she held him as he screamed. The tremors subsided a little. She held him some more. When he awoke, he looked at her with such wonder, such wistful longing, that she kept on holding him. A few hours later, when he woke properly, he tried to order her out of his rooms,but she wasn’t going anywhere; at least, not until he acknowledged that this apprenticeship was now a friendship. 

Two weeks later they had a breakthrough on the potion that they hoped would weaken Voldemort. Thrilled, she threw her arms around him. He swung her around in the air, both of them laughing breathlessly. He put her down. She gazed up at him. Vaguely, she noticed dust motes floating through the air, catching the light from the candles on the bench. Her breath caught. His eyes were intense as they held hers. He raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question. She bit her lip and nodded her head. Exquisitely, agonisingly slowly, he brought his lips to hers. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. He ran his tongue gently across the seam of her lips. She opened her mouth and felt his velvet tongue caress her own. Minutes, hours, eternities passed. Hermione knew at that moment that she belonged with this man forever. 

Incredibly, he felt the same way. Their relationship grew day by day. He began to tell her things, little things at first, about his past. She cried the day he told her about Lily Evans. She sobbed in his arms when he explained how he had joined the Death Eaters, secure in the knowledge that here were people who appreciated him, who liked him, who wanted him. Then came the terrible moment of betrayal, when Voldemort refused to guarantee Lily’s safety. 

She heard of his submission to Dumbledore, and how that became his entree into the dangerous and thankless role of spy. He told her of his mother, of his abusive, drunken father. She knew of his love of Muggle rock bands of the seventies, and his addiction to dark chocolate with cherries. Eventually, he told her what she already knew: how much he loved her, adored her, wanted a life with her, pictured her pregnant with their children.

He didn’t tell her that he was to kill Albus Dumbledore.

 

SSHGSSHGSSHG

 

Hermione would always remember the shock and disbelief that coursed through her when she heard the news. Then came months of fighting through fog, desperately trying to pretend to the boys that nothing was wrong, crying herself to sleep every night, drifting through the interminable days in that grim tent. 

Then, one night, a patronus came to Harry. Hermione, alone in the tent, wandered outside, stepping just outside the wards, wondering where Harry had gone. An arm shot around her, holding her close, and a hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her scream. “It’s me, Hermione, it’s me”. 

Sobbing angrily, she turned on him and beat on his chest with the side of her fists, again and again. At length, she collapsed into his arms. “Why? I don’t believe you’re evil. Why did you do it?”

An hour later, Hermione was gasping at the sheer stupidity of Albus Dumbledore’s grand plan. 

“But Hermione, I’m here now. Can you ever forgive me?”

A tangle of arms and legs, feverishly whispered words, long, passionate kisses, moans and sighs. New feelings of belonging, of sheer and utter rightness. A brief moment of pain, a soothing apology, building, falling, crashing, but always and forever together. 

More months of stolen meetings, of brief kisses. Hermione’s proficiency in the Protean Charm was put to good use. Messages of few words but a multitude of emotions burned through the charmed coins. 

The final battle. The snake, rearing up and striking the man she loved. Searing guilt at leaving Severus in the shack. Revulsion when Ron kissed her in the heat of the moment. Rage and pain when her best friend died. Joy, bittersweet joy when Harry returned to life and killed Voldemort. 

Returning to the shack with Harry, who had seen the blossoming of their relationship in Severus’s memories. Harry, who was evangelistic in his desire to clear Severus’s name. Harry, who was the first to notice that Severus was still breathing.

Weeks in St Mungo’s with guards at the door. Harry intervened with Kingsley, who authorised Hermione’s presence in Severus’s room. Severus, hailed as a hero by most of England’s wizarding population, condemned as a murderer by the ICW, which as a matter of international protocol had stepped in to try the remaining Death Eaters.

Promises made, a proposal, joyfully yet tearfully, accepted.

A trial. A farce. A travesty.

 

SSHGSSHGSSHG

“Hermione, Kingsley is taking you to see Severus.” Harry’s voice was gentle, though hoarse with unshed tears.

Midnight. The cell was dim, damp and soulless. A candle sputtered. Promises which had been made were now kept. A ring, hastily transfigured from a button and imbued with protection, love, sacrifice. Softly spoken responses, black eyes never leaving brown.

“You may have ten minutes with your husband.”

Ten minutes, stolen from an eternity. 

Ten minutes, with everything to say and no words with which to say it.

Ten minutes, to memorise the feeling of his arms around her, his lips on hers, his scent, his essence.

Ten minutes.

 

SSHGSSHGSSHG

 

Hermione clasped a chipped mug of tea, barely registering its warmth. The wait was unbearable. Each second ticked by louder than the last.

SSHGSSHGSSHG

Severus, still too weak to stand steadily enough for the execution squad to take aim, was strapped to a wooden chair. A blindfold covered his eyes. A white cloth was pinned to his chest.

The crunch of feet on gravel. The muttered, barely heard instructions from the ICW representative. 

Her heartbeat, deafening in the silence.

Ten wands were raised. A countdown.

A flash of green.

Gone.


End file.
